The Map of Us. Jules Preston

       Crumble.

       The whole thing.

       Break off.

       Nice idea.

       Too ambitious.

       Wrong sort of sand for ambitious.

       This is play-it-safe sand.

       Saw it as soon as I got out of the car.

       Don’t-take-any-chances sand.

       Not the right sort of sand for a giraffe.

       A sand sculpture of a giraffe?

       Idiot.

       What was I thinking?

       Be fine.

       Be extra careful.

       Soft brushes.

       Small tools.

       Grain at a time stuff.

       Big things.

       Giraffes.

       Take longer.

       That’s all.

       You can do it.

       Three hours left.

       Delicate touch.

       Spray bottle.

       Not too much.

       A mist.

       You can win.

       Beat the dolphins with a giraffe.

       See their faces then.

       I miss her.

       Try not to think about it.

       Think about the giraffe.

       I miss her.

       Giraffe.

       I miss the sound of that stupid typewriter.

       The look on their faces.

       I miss the sound of her breathing next to me.

       Don’t.

       I miss everything about her.

       Stop.

       Stop now.

       Don’t want to forget.

       She’s gone.

       It’s going to break off.

       I’m telling you.

       Wind keeps up like this.

       Crumble.

       Everything does.

       You can do it.

       Steady hand.

       Be gentle.

       Grain at a time stuff.

       Look.

       Over there.

       Dolphin.

       Dorsal fin has gone.

       Broken off.

       Told you.

       Still in it.

       Still got a chance.

       Giraffe?

       Idiot.

       I miss her.

       NE

      Abby was waiting in Mrs Whittle’s office. She was sitting in the green chair in front of Mrs Whittle’s desk where you sat when you had done something wrong. Abby hadn’t done anything wrong. Not that she could remember. She had pen on her uniform, but you couldn’t get told off for that. It wasn’t bad pen. It looked like a fish. Or a balloon. You could hardly see it.

      Mrs Whittle was talking outside in the corridor. Abby didn’t know who she was talking to. The other teacher had gone home. The teacher that was still learning to be a teacher. She had nice hair and a fringe. She had funny teeth though. Abby wanted a fringe. She couldn’t have one. Her hair was too short. It was easier for her mum.

      Abby was alone in the room. She wanted to go home. It was 5.18pm. There was a clock on the wall behind the desk. It didn’t make any sound.

      Mrs Whittle stopped talking. Abby heard her walking away down the corridor. She was with someone. Abby didn’t know who. She couldn’t see. The door was pulled to.

      The school was empty. Abby didn’t like it. She wanted her mum to come and collect her. Her mum didn’t. Someone else did.